


All Of My Days

by theaa



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pre-shipping, Romance, slight angst, thinly veiled fluff really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3883663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaa/pseuds/theaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He always has an excuse. Tripped over a doorway, caught the cupboard door, stepped out in the road too quick, missed a step going downstairs.</p><p>Karen almost accepts it. Almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Of My Days

**Author's Note:**

> I've marathoned Daredevil and am confirmed Karen/Matt trash so here have this. Sorry for any typos. I should be studying for exams, but this wrote itself anyway.

_Now I see clearly it's you I'm looking for  
__All of my days  
__Soon I'll smile  
__I know I'll feel this loneliness no more  
__All of my days  
__For I look around me  
__And it seems you've found me  
__And it's coming into sight_

 _\- Alexi Murdoch, All Of My Days_  

 

He always has an excuse. Tripped over a doorway, caught the cupboard door, stepped out in the road too quick, missed a step going downstairs. He sounds like he picks them out a hat, but then again they slip off his tongue so easily. “I was tired, I just caught the edge of the table and fell, honestly I’m _fine_.”

 

Karen frowns but instinct takes over and she fusses over him anyway. The damp dishtowel she presses to his forehead soaks up the scarlet of a re-opened wound. Matt grumbles when she presses the rag tighter, trying to staunch the bleeding. When she peels it away she winces.

 

“Matt, this needs stitches. This is not ok.”

 

But Matt’s already climbing out of the chair she’d guided him to, grabbing his cane from where it’s propped up beside him.

 

“Karen, thank you, but I’m fine. I’ve got to go, I’ll see you later.”

 

She’s left in the middle of the office, the dishtowel in her hand dripping pink onto the linoleum.

 

* * *

  

She catches him at home one time. It’s still early afternoon but the office had wrapped up and Foggy had told her to take the afternoon off due to their lack of new clientele. Instead of taking the subway home she’s wound up in front of his door, clutching a thermos of soup in her hand, not entirely sure what her game plan is.

 

Matt’s no show at work that day hadn’t been a surprise, but Foggy’s vague excuses were starting to grate in a way that has her feeling like there’s something she’s not privy to. And if Matt really were ill, then soup would do him no harm, she justifies. So she knocks.

 

It takes him a minute to answer and when he emerges he’s in soft sweats, a zip up navy hoodie, and for a split second Karen really does believe he’s sick. Until she notices the hard jagged line of a cut in his side, exposed from where the hoodie has ridden up as Matt’s reached to open the door.

 

Instead of a cheery hello or ‘We missed you at work today’ all that she manages is “You’re hurt again,” and the breath catches in her throat.

 

“Karen, hi,” he says, ignoring her opening statement entirely, already backing into the apartment. She follows him mutely, dumbly, until they’re stood by his couch.

 

“Did I miss anything at work today? I’m sorry, I was feeling rough.” His voice is annoyingly smooth, calm and steady and usually that’s something that makes Karen feel safe and reassured but it lights something inside her, infuriates her.

 

‘You’re injured,” she says again, sharply this time, and eventually Matt sighs and drops down to sit on the couch.

 

The sigh makes Karen shiver. It’s long and drawn out and he sounds so _tired_ , so weighed down that she almost feels guilty. But then her eyes run over the angry puckered skin again and a new wave of worry and frustration washes over her.

 

“Matt, what happened? Tell me. Please.”

 

He hasn’t got his glasses on, and Karen knows that’s kind of rare around her, but this way she can see how his eyes shift away from where he knows she’s watching him. He doesn’t have to see to reflect worry and fear there. Karen’s hands start to shake, so she sets the soup down on the coffee table and cradles them together in front of her.

 

“Matt?”

 

“I got in a fight,” he says simply. “The other guy got in a few punches and some other offences before I won.”

 

Karen’s heart constricts. “But Matt, you’re….”

 

The corner of his lips twitches ever so slightly upwards. “Blind? Yeah.”

 

Immediately Karen feels stupid and her fingers twist together. “What the hell were you doing in a fight?”

 

“Funny, I thought you were going to ask how I won.”

 

Nothing about this strikes Karen as funny. “I’m more concerned with how you were so stupid that you got into the fight into the first place.”

 

There’s that sigh again. Matt shifts on the couch and groans a little, clamping a hand to the wound on his side.

 

Karen startles when she realises he’s clearing space for her to sit down. She sits next to him gingerly and reaches out for his hand, steadying her still shaking fingers by joining them with his.

 

His thumb brushes over her skin, barely there, gentle as a spring breeze. It only makes his next words heavier.

 

“I’ve been hiding something from you. For a long time now.”

 

* * *

  

She patches him up again. The action feels different now, less paranoid and more heavy. She’s not medically trained so she just refreshes the gauze on the cuts on his chest and tells him to be quiet when he says the one on his side doesn’t need the attention.

 

When she’s done she rolls up the first aid kit and just looks at him, lying on his couch. His skin is shiny and bruised in patches, the broad expanse of his chest well defined, but a battleground of injuries. There’s purple crescent moons stamped under his eyes, and the slope of his mouth pulls downwards.

 

He doesn’t look like a man capable of fighting crime. He doesn’t look like a man capable of looking after himself at all.

 

“You’re worried,” he says.

 

“Shouldn’t I be?”

 

Silence falls again between them and Karen tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and makes to get up, but his fingers tighten around her wrist, so she pauses.

 

“I’m sorry for not telling you.”

 

“You said that earlier,” she points out, “I understand why you didn’t.”

 

“But you haven’t forgiven me. You’re holding your breath, your heartbeat’s sped up, your muscles are tense.”

 

Karen raises an eyebrow. “See, I don’t even know what to do with all that information.” Matt’s hand drops away from her wrist. There’s a pause and Karen shrugs, and she’s not even sure if Matt can tell or not anymore.

 

“It’s just that lying’s lying, for whatever motive and I just need some time to get my head around it all. I’m not saying I’ll never forgive you, Matt. You did it for the right reasons. Jesus, you’re doing this _all_ for the right reasons… You’re a good person, Matt.”

 

He turns his face towards her voice, a hint of a smile. “Foggy took some persuading on that last one.”

 

“Well,” she says awkwardly. “You are. I’ll see you later, ok. Don’t get yourself killed, please.”

 

“I’ll try.”

 

* * *

 

She planned to stay away longer, but after just short of a week Foggy’s incessant calls start to wear her down and anyway she spends each hour wondering exactly what he’s doing – if he’s sitting in the office sipping coffee, or getting his ass kicked by a criminal down a dark alley. The not knowing nearly kills her, makes her fingers itch and her throat tight and she decides it’s not worth it, it’s really not.

 

So on the sixth day she walks into the office, places her cup of coffee down on her desk and goes straight to sorting through the files that have accumulated since she’s been gone, vehemently pretending like nothing has changed.

 

Matt comes out of the office two minutes later. He stops still when he notices she’s there and Karen realises that he can probably smell the new perfume she put on that morning, can probably hear the way her heart speeds up when she sees him, can probably feel the heat from the blush she’s fighting to control.

 

‘Karen, you’re back.”

 

“There was, err, a lot of work to catch up on, yeah.”

 

He nods, doesn’t push it, and crosses to the tiny kitchenette, starts to make himself some coffee. She abandons the paperwork and hovers beside him, watching him handle the hot water carefully. Ridiculous now.

 

“I missed you,” he says, back still to her.

 

“Yeah?” she breathes.

 

He finishes stirring in the milk and flips so his back is against the counter. Karen can see her own reflection in his glasses, pink cheeks and parted mouth.

 

“Yeah. Thanks for believing in me.”

 

* * *

 

Foggy goes out of town on Friday to visit his family (“Not that you’re not my family, dude!” he says to Matt just before he leaves.) Before he climbs into the taxi he makes Matt promise not to do anything stupid while he’s away. Matt laughs and waves goodbye, as does Karen, standing on the sidewalk beside him, watching the yellow car disappear into the traffic.

 

As they turn back to the office Matt slips his arm through hers and lets her guide him back upstairs.

 

There are no fresh injuries on him at the moment and the tabloids have been silent on the ‘Daredevil’ for a while now. It makes her feel nervous instead of safe, like something is brewing just offstage.

 

When she brings it up and warns him to be extra careful, _please_ , Matt shrugs. “You worry too much, Karen.”

 

And it’s true, she worries a lot. Not too much though. No, never too much.

 

* * *

 

 The sense of foreboding drags worse while Foggy’s away so on Saturday evening Karen turns up at his door, again, this time a bottle of white wine under her arm, a small house plant clutched against her chest.

 

Matt answers the door shirtless this time. It’s not like she hasn’t seen him shirtless before, but it feels different now, and Karen splutters until he goes back inside and re-emerges, pulling a Henley over his head.

 

“Hi, I thought we could have dinner? That is if you weren’t planning on playing the vigilante this evening?” Her try at humour falls a little flat and she considers backing into the elevator, forgetting this whole misdirected plan, perhaps keeping her dignity while she still posses it.

 

“I play vigilante every evening, Karen.”

 

“Oh. Well, it’s – I’ll-“

 

But he holds open the door and allows her in. She wobbles on the threshold and then trails after him. She places the cacti on his coffee table and admires the little bursts of colour the flowers bring to his gloomy apartment, pink and blooming.

 

“A plant?”

 

“It’s a cacti,” she explains, “you don’t even have to water it, it just looks pretty, I promise.”

 

“Ah,” Matt nods, “Well, thank you. I’ve been told this place needed brightening up a bit.” His smile is genuine and warm and it makes Karen feels a little lighter and softer inside.

 

They order take-out and just sit and chat. Mostly Matt tells her stories of when he and Foggy were roomies in college and most of the little tales make her laugh, nose scrunching in delight at all their failed attempts to win over girls and pass classes. The ones of his father though, they make her crawl closer to him on the couch, make her thread her fingers through his hair as he talks, voice dropping lower and lower.

 

Eventually Matt falls silent. The wine hasn’t even been opened but Karen’s eyes are heavy. He stretches out his legs and pulls her down into his lap, his fingers now carding through her hair.

 

“Soft. Softer than I thought it would be. Longer, too,” he says quietly.

 

Karen’s cheeks heat up, but she smiles. “What does it smell like, my hair?”

 

“Vanilla,” he says firmly.

 

“It’s my shampoo,” she tells him and he nods.

 

“Yes, but you always smell of vanilla. Everyone has a scent. That’s yours.”

 

Karen doesn’t really know what to say to that so she just sighs and buries her nose into the warmth of his shirt. The sound of his breathing, the fingers gently brushing her scalp send her to sleep almost immediately.

 

When she wakes the couch is empty aside from the dent in the pillow he has left. Her watch says it’s 3am. In the distance a siren sounds, screaming down a deserted city street. Panic seizes her.

 

* * *

 

The first thing she notices is the silk sheets. They glide over her skin as she sits up. She’s still wearing her underwear but over the top is an old cotton shirt, crisp and starched like it’s never been worn before, but the logo tells her it’s from Matt’s college.

 

Matt stumbling in at 6am in the morning, then of all things, making sure she took the bed, a decision she’s tried her best to fight. The hazy memories start to return.

 

He was wincing, a cut lip, some bruises already beginning to swell around his eye, but no blood. Karen had been grateful.

 

She slips the sheets off her and pads barefoot into the other room. Matt is still asleep on the couch so she busies herself with making coffee as quietly as possible, lifting two mugs out of the cupboard gently, cursing under her breath when the machine bubbles violently. She’s so intent on her task that she doesn’t hear Matt come up behind her until he reaches out and touches her, his hand making contact with her lower back. She jumps at his cold fingers and whirls around.

 

“Matt! Are you okay?”

 

His cracked lip isn’t looking too bad, but the bruises under his eye are purple and yellow and blue and Karen wonders exactly what hit him. Or who. She hopes they’re suffering much worse.

 

“I’m fine,” he says easily. “Can’t imagine my face is a pretty picture right now, though.”

 

“It’s looked better,” Karen admits, “but you’re still handsome.”

 

Matt’s face breaks out into a grin and Karen stops herself from blushing by grabbing a mug. “Coffee?”

 

“No.”

 

“Oh…”

 

“Karen, can I ask permission for something? Can I-“ Matt’s voice teeters a little, just a tiny bit. “Can I feel you?”

 

Karen blinks.

 

“Oh – like my face?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Her mind flashes back to when she asked Foggy to do the same, how intimate and private it felt, and her words get stuck in her throat, strangled by sudden nerves.

 

“Y-yeah. Sure.”

 

Matt lifts his hands slowly; the pads of his thumbs touch her first, run the length of her cheekbones to slide back down to cup her chin. They tremble slightly as they move upwards and Karen’s eyes flutter close as Matt’s fingers brush over her eyelashes, her eyebrows, and up into her hairline. They glide down again, drawing a frame around her face, thumbs stopping to sweep over her earlobes. Finally, Matt trails a finger along the line of her lips and Karen can’t help but let them fall open, the breath she didn’t even realise she was holding, escaping. His fingers are callouses, rough, but oh so gentle.  Matt’s hands drop back to his sides and she feels the loss of contact keenly.

 

“So, what do you see?” Karen asks, fighting to get her vocal chords under control again.

 

“You’re beautiful.”

 

“Foggy already told you that,” she says, smiling.

 

“No, I can tell. Your skin is soft, your face is delicate, your lips are perfect and full – but it’s not that– you’re just beautiful. I wanted to see if your face matched what I already knew.”

 

Her heart kicks into over-drive.

 

“Matt…”

 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve-“ he begins, taking a step backwards from where they’ve been standing impossibly close together.

 

Karen shakes her head and reaches for him instead, curling a hand around his arm and then bring him back to her.

 

She knows that this will complicate about a million things in her life; but she does it anyway and presses her lips to his. It takes a second for him to respond and his lips are chapped and rough, but she feels truly beautiful; safe and respected and _loved_ in his arms.  

 

Their foreheads rest together, both of them catching their breath. Matt’s hands slide into the ends of her hair, and his eyes are closed, dark eyelashes brushing his cheek.

 

For now, Karen thinks, he looks peaceful. 

 

 


End file.
